


A Truth Universally Acknowledged

by aphilologicalbatman (inabathrobe)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Morning After, References to Jane Austen, Rimming, incredibly incorrect Jane Austen opinions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 06:24:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19351300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/aphilologicalbatman
Summary: It was the morning after the first day of the rest of their lives. It was a Monday. Crowley wishes he were still asleep because his dreams have better opinions on Austen than Aziraphale does.





	A Truth Universally Acknowledged

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Yeats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats) who cheerled this fic across two continents, told me how to spell K-e-i-r-a Knightley's name, and then betaed this to boot. I can't believe I get to come back to this fandom.

Aziraphale is reading when Crowley wakes up. It’s a ratty paperback of one of the lesser Austen novels, and half the front cover is missing. Aziraphale makes a little _hnn_ noise, licks his finger, and turns the page. As he’s turning it, he catches sight of Crowley, awake, and Crowley watches him seeing him, the strange, slow dawning pleasure that makes something twist in Crowley’s gut. Aziraphale is still pleased to see him.

“Hi,” Crowley says.

“Good morning.” Aziraphale sets his book down on his naked thigh. “You fell asleep,” he adds as if that weren’t self evident.

“I know, I know.” Crowley struggles up to half-sitting.

Aziraphale is still looking at him, bemused. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.” He tucks a lock of hair behind Crowley’s ear, stroking his finger over the snake tattoo next to it. “Did I tire you out?” If Crowley didn’t know better, he would think Aziraphale sounded smug.

“You did not— ” Crowley sputters. “I’m a demon! We don’t get _tired_. I just— I just like sleeping.”

Aziraphale nods, turning back to his book. “So go back to sleep, my dear.” He pats Crowley’s shoulder, or at least he’s probably trying for Crowley’s shoulder, but mostly he ends up petting Crowley’s bare chest. Crowley lets himself slouch back down into bed (Aziraphale’s bed; oh god _Aziraphale’s bed_ ) and contemplate an exit strategy. Short of making some kind of diabolical escape, he’s got nothing. Shit.

Which means he’s either going to have to talk about it or sleep until Aziraphale decides to leave. Crowley certainly isn’t going to fall back asleep, not while he’s nigh-on obsessing over the awkward conversation they’re going to have when Aziraphale gets tired of playing at whatever it is he’s playing at, reading his book and acting like _nothing of particular significance has happened_ , so it’s perfectly fine for him to make smarmy jokes about tiring Crowley out. And this is Aziraphale’s home, so his leaving’s out, too.

Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s hair. Oh, honestly. Crowley flops over onto his side and props himself up on one elbow, so he can tuck his chin over Aziraphale’s thigh. He’s going to ask Aziraphale what in the world he thinks he’s doing, but what comes out of his mouth is, “You’re not making an effort.”

Aziraphale looks down at the smooth, unmarred skin of his own crotch as if he has to double-check. “Well, I don’t need genitalia to read a book.” Crowley has to wonder if Aziraphale is being purposefully thick.

“I’m sorry that not all of us just modify our bodies willy-nilly based on our current activity, angel,” Crowley snaps.

“You were asleep!”

“Well, I’m awake _now_.”

“Yes, that’s become very obvious.”

Crowley glares at nothing in particular. This is going exactly how Crowley expected it to. Bloody angels and their bloody morals. Can’t even keep their dicks on straight. He rolls away, facing the far wall. He watches as the stacks of books shift about two feet to the left, making room for a bedside table with a steaming hot cup of tea. Crowley has a feeling that if he tried it, the tea would be exactly how he likes it. “Please stop trying to be nice to me,” Crowley says.

“No,” Aziraphale says. Crowley hears him turn the page.

“Ugh,” he says. Aziraphale doesn’t respond. “You can just say you want me to go.”

Aziraphale shuts his book. “I don’t want you to go.”

Crowley stares at the tea. The tea doesn’t stare back. Aziraphale’s hands, soft, warm, achingly familiar, turn Crowley to face him. Crowley waits patiently for Aziraphale to say something, but instead he just cups Crowley’s face in his hands and looks faintly concerned.

“Did I do something wrong?” Aziraphale asks softly, tracing Crowley’s bottom lip with his thumb.

Crowley opens his mouth and shuts it again. “Go back to reading your book.”

“But you’re awake now.”

“Yes, we’ve established that.”

Aziraphale has a certain gleam in his eyes as he leans down into Crowley’s space and brushes their lips together. “I’m sure there will be time for me to read again later.” He slots their mouths together, unhesitating and almost practiced now after the night before’s faltering false starts. Even Aziraphale’s kisses are unbearably sincere, and Crowley hates that. Aziraphale pulls away with a cinematic gasp for breath —as though he had even bothered to breathe at all. It’s all a bunch of blessed showmanship.

Aziraphale’s cheeks are flushed, and he’s giving Crowley the little smile that usually means Aziraphale is internally gloating to himself about what a good influence he is on Crowley after Crowley’s done something halfway decent for the simple purpose of making Aziraphale smile that particular smile. But this time Crowley hasn’t done anything. “What?”

“You should see yourself, sweetheart,” Aziraphale says. He lets out a low whistle, sitting back up as if he wants a better view.

“And whose fault is that?” Crowley says, trying for standoffish.

“Mine,” the angel says proudly.

Crowley raises a single eyebrow and is infuriated to find that Aziraphale’s beatific expression doesn’t dim in the slightest. He sits up and starts in on how Aziraphale must find all these fleshy matters so demeaning with some snide undercurrents about exactly what he thinks of Aziraphale’s performance, but then he realizes: “You’re not even listening to me.”

“Not in the slightest.”

“You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“So you tell me,” Aziraphale says. “Now, I’m going to kiss you, so you can’t talk anymore.”

And Aziraphale does. It starts out gentle and chaste, more of an after-dinner kiss, with Aziraphale’s mouth light and ghosting against Crowley’s, but Crowley has wasted quite enough time settling for gentlemanly kisses. He opens his lips a little, encouraging, and Aziraphale follows suit, licking delicately into Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale’s kisses are like a strange mirror image of Crowley’s, distorted in places by something essentially Aziraphale. He slides his hands over Crowley’s hips and tugs him into his lap. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it means that Crowley can wrap his arms around the angel’s neck and grind down against him and— He pulls back.

“You’re still not making an effort.”

“Nope,” Aziraphale say cheerily.

“What, do you have a conflicting appointment? Or are you going to finish your book first?”

“Well, technically the bookshop is supposed to be open this morning,” Aziraphale says, trailing off.

“If you open the bloody bookshop instead of fucking me—” Aziraphale makes an annoyed noise that means, _do not use that word_ , but Crowley carries on, regardless. “—I will burn it back down.”

“I’m afraid the shop will be unexpectedly closed today. For personal reasons.”

“Good,” Crowley says. “Now, then.”

Aziraphale traces the constellation of bruises scattered across Crowley’s neck and shoulders and chest that he hasn’t bothered to heal yet. Crowley whines when Aziraphale leans forward and presses his mouth to one of them.

“Focus, please.”

“Hm?”

Really, Crowley thinks, this is absurd. He shoves his hand down and finds the smooth blank swath of skin between Aziraphale’s thighs that is of absolutely no use to either of them. “Seriously?”

“Sorry, force of habit,” Aziraphale says, shrugging.

“Well, fix it.”

“In a minute,” Aziraphale says. “I’m busy.” He leans in to start another long series of kisses. Crowley, fed up, flops back down into the pillows, which were definitely previously pillow, singular, but who’s counting? (Crowley is.) Aziraphale looks amused. “So impatient.”

“The world just ended, Aziraphale. Forgive me if I feel like I might run out of time at any moment.”

An expression that Crowley can’t quite read flits across Aziraphale’s face. He bites his lower lip and strokes Crowley’s thigh. “All right, all right. Turn over for me, there’s a dear.” Crowley, pleased that he’s finally about to get what he signed up for, rolls over and props his chin up on his folded arms. Crowley can feel Aziraphale kiss the small of his back before digging his short, manicured nails into the swell of Crowley’s ass, fond. Aziraphale is parting his cheeks, spreading Crowley, and he expects Aziraphale’s miraculous cock to make an appearance. What he is not expecting— “Is that your _tongue_?”

Aziraphale says, “Sorry, is it not done?”

“Um,” Crowley says. “It’s very much done, yes, although usually there’s more preparation involved and you would’ve asked me to, I don’t know, wash up, but I suppose that doesn’t actually matter, given that bacteria isn’t really going to have the slightest effect on your system and I don’t really use that hole as intended anyway, so have at it, I suppose, because what’s a little bit more debauchery on your divine conscience?”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale says, and licks his way downward. Crowley makes a strangled noise and shoves his face in a pillow. The angel —God help him— is licking delicately at his balls, sucking on the occasional mouthful of skin. It’s more exploratory than anything else, Aziraphale wandering his way across Crowley’s body with a hapless innocence that sometimes manifests itself as Aziraphale tonguing Crowley’s taint.

Crowley revises his estimation of Aziraphale as hapless or innocent when Aziraphale ever so carefully circles Crowley’s asshole with the tip of his tongue. “Did you read about this? Is this a feature of Austen that I’ve clean forgotten?”

Aziraphale laps at him pensively, making Crowley’s skin sing. “You read her?”

“Nah, but I enjoyed the Austen TV boom in the ‘90s, although, strictly speaking, I prefer the Keira Knightley version of _Pride and Prejudice_ because— Ouch!” Crowley says, grinning at the headboard. His ass tingles where Aziraphale had smacked him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale growls, “shut up.”

“Make me?” Crowley says, trying very hard to sound sincere.

Aziraphale sighs as if it’s a terrible burden for him to try to make Crowley too blissed out to talk. He scrapes his fingernails across Crowley’s ass where the skin is still sensitive. He licks at Crowley’s hole a bit, thoughtless little kitten licks, before going back to sucking on Crowley’s balls. Crowley whines into the pillow and resists the urge to kick Aziraphale in the side.

“You know, say what you will about Jennifer Ehle’s Elizabeth, but I found Colin Firth’s Mr. Darcy to be frankly wooden in comparison to— Oh shit oh fuck Aziraphale _yes_.” The angel, pinning his thighs down, is insistently fucking Crowley with his tongue, hot and slick inside him and frankly thrusting farther in than Aziraphale has any business being. Crowley know he’s a snake, but he’s pretty sure Aziraphale’s tongue isn’t supposed to be that long. He squirms a little against the hands holding him in place, trying to crane his neck far enough around to get a good look at Aziraphale, curls splayed out against Crowley’s skin, face buried in him.

Aziraphale pulls back. “You’re ruining my angle.”

“Sorry,” Crowley drawls, “I didn’t want to miss out on the view.”

“I’ll buy you a mirror,” Aziraphale says. Crowley can tell that Aziraphale was going for snark, but then heard what he had said.

“Promises, promises,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale sighs dramatically. “Sometimes you really are an unmanageable hellion.”

“Flatterer.”

Aziraphale yanks Crowley’s hips up, so he has to shift to kneeling and grab at the headboard for balance. He wraps his hands around an artfully carved tree branch, the wood smooth and sinuous under his hands, at just the right height for him to hold onto. Aziraphale says lightly, “It’s apple wood.” Crowley laughs. He can’t help it. And then Aziraphale is laughing too, draping himself over Crowley’s back and smothering his chuckles in Crowley’s shoulder, and oh, now he _is_ making an effort. Crowley shifts slightly, trying to grind back against him, and Aziraphale helps, guiding them together. He’s already hard, and Crowley can hear his little gasps, can feel Aziraphale’s fingertips skating across his skin. Aziraphale thumbs at his hole, not enough, and then Aziraphale is right there, the head of his cock pressed against Crowley, about to guide himself in, and then he stops and says, surprisingly prim, “May I?”, and it’s so infuriatingly Aziraphale that Crowley can’t actually be mad.

“Yes, please do.”

Aziraphale pushes in, insistent and easy, and Crowley boggles at the fact that Aziraphale is somehow completely willing to reshape this tiny pocket of the universe based on his own assumption that Crowley should never need any preparation at all. Crowley doesn’t know the details of the official heavenly stance on the use of divine intervention for lubrication, but he’s willing to bet that Aziraphale is in violation of it. His skin itches faintly against the miracle.

“Good?” Aziraphale asks.

“Mmhm.”

“Okay.”

Aziraphale’s hands are firm on Crowley’s hips, pulling him close and grinding into him. There’s a gentle ache to it, the feeling of Aziraphale trying to get as close as possible. “You’re so warm,” Aziraphale says.

“Bodies are like that.”

“It’s nice.”

Aziraphale sets a slow, lazy rhythm, rocking into Crowley with a tenderness that would make his skin crawl if he weren’t too busy reveling in the electric intimacy of having Aziraphale inside of him. Crowley rolls his hips back and hears Aziraphale’s little “oh!” when he feels it. Aziraphale wraps a hand around Crowley’s cock, stroking him off out of rhythm. He presses his hips up to meet Crowley’s, the slap of their bodies loud in the quiet room, and Crowley wants to stay here, in this moment, where Aziraphale just wants to be _close_ and _together_ and they don’t have to face whatever comes next.

“Do you mind if I finish inside you?”

Crowley snorts. “Oh, this time you ask.”

Aziraphale hums softly and kisses Crowley’s back, sticky with sweat. “Sorry.”

Crowley says, “Don’t be.”

Crowley clenches around him, and Aziraphale hisses, thrusting in as far as he can. He knows when Aziraphale comes because he makes all these tiny human noises that have no place in his angel’s mouth and says Crowley’s name like a charm. He pulses hot and wet inside of Crowley, and later, that will be messy and uncomfortable, but for now, he lets himself flop down onto the bed, sated angel heavy against his back.

He gives Aziraphale about a minute past the polite amount of time before he nudges him with an elbow and says, “Are you forgetting something?”

Aziraphale shifts obligingly, working his hand under Crowley to wrap around his cock. He strokes languidly and leans in to kiss Crowley. It’s an awkward angle, and Crowley has to really twist his neck back, and the kisses are fleeting, unmemorable things, Aziraphale nuzzling their lips together. Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s cheek and then sighs. “What can I do for you, my dear?”

“Talk to me.”

Aziraphale grins, flicking his thumb over the head of Crowley’s cock. “You look good like this. I like being able to see your eyes, you know. Do you want me to finger you? I could finger you. Or I could use my mouth. Would you like that?” He tightens his fist around Crowley and nips at his earlobe, and Crowley whimpers and comes undone.

“Not just now,” Crowley says after he’s caught his breath, “but let’s put in a pin in that.”

Aziraphale laughs at him. He pulls out gently and then curls up against Crowley’s back, and Crowley has the distinct impression that Aziraphale— “Did you just miracle away your dick?”

“It was in the way! And it’s _itchy_.”

Crowley groans and tucks Aziraphale’s arm around him. “Wait till you try a vulva. That’ll show you itchy.”

Aziraphale kisses the nape of his neck. “Hush.” Crowley does.

Several minutes into the afterglow, Aziraphale says, “You don’t actually think that Keira Knightley gave a better performance as Elizabeth Bennet, do you?”

Crowley groans. “No one in their right mind is seriously relitigating the _Pride and Prejudice_ debates of 2005. Honestly, Aziraphale.”

“Well, I’m glad you agree that Jennifer Ehle did a much better job then,” Aziraphale says smarmily.

“Please stop ruining the moment, angel.”

“I’m just saying—” Crowley drags himself up to sitting and has clambered halfway out of the bed before Aziraphale catches him. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

“Your Austenian prattle is driving me out of the house. Bookshop. Whatever,” Crowley snaps. “I should go.”

“Don’t go.” But Aziraphale lets go of his hand.

Crowley stands there, naked, angelic come dribbling obscenely down the inside of his thigh. It’s really not the time. He curses it away.

“If I wanted you to go, the bed wouldn’t still be here,” Aziraphale says matter-of-factly.

“The bed—” Crowley starts to say, but really, he should’ve known Aziraphale didn’t usually keep his books stacked on the floor.

“Drink your tea.”

Crowley does. It’s miraculously still warm, just the right temperature. Aziraphale picks up his Austen and at least pretends to pick up where he’d left off reading. Crowley stares at him. Eventually, he says, “Did you _plan_ this?”

“No, I decided on a whim that I was going to end six thousand blameless years of divine chastity for a single night of senseless passion with a demon.” Aziraphale doesn’t look up from his book, but Crowley thinks he might be turning slightly pink. “You’re good at your job, Crowley, but you’re not that good.”

“Hey now,” Crowley says. “There’s no need to go impugning my job performance just because you fancy me.” Aziraphale gives him a look. Crowley grins at him and sips his tea.

“Well, now I want you to go,” Aziraphale says, but there’s no bite to it.

“No, you don’t,” Crowley crows. He sets his tea down and rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You like having me here. You enjoy my company. You’re a bit in love with—”

Aziraphale turns to face Crowley, and he’s saying, “I will kick you out of bed, you cheeky little bastard,” but Crowley tips his chin up and kisses him. It’s a gentle licking kiss, and Aziraphale gives him a cherubic smile when he pulls back.

“Now I believe the etiquette for the morning after a tryst such as ours dictates that I should take you out to brunch,” Aziraphale says archly.

“If I didn’t know better, angel, I’d think you were trying to tempt me.”

“Why I never.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://aphilologicalbatman.tumblr.com/). Follow me or whatever.


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